


here, graceless

by flirtfighting (anyarysm)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:53:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23198881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyarysm/pseuds/flirtfighting
Summary: "My sweet, darling girl who always thinks the worst of me."Her breath hitches as his ministrations, but he's not done.The question isn't when he became this person, looking to hurt. The question isn't when he began thinking of regret as validation. The question is, oh, didn't I love you enough?"It's funny, isn't it, the lengths I've already gone?"Missing scene fromthe king can't play the part (you're up, pretty boy)on Twitter.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46
Collections: Reylo Hidden Gems, Reylo Prompt Fills (@reylo_prompts)





	here, graceless

Aureoled by the golden afternoon sun through those ornate windows, Rey looks like every saint who has ever listened. Is it any wonder he adores her? There is a righteous anger in her eyes that stokes his own, and her accusation lies heavy because it is unspoken. There are certain things in the light that appear darker. Here, he is every dark thing.

Her face, when she speaks, is excessively blank. "Did you have anything to do with it?"

What did she say before, he could make a killing playing a confirmed villain? It is brought to fore now, the way he raises an eyebrow, his condescension so bespoke. He doesn't even have to say anything—(if honesty? He doesn't feel the need to deny it, even though his denial would be true.) What good does it do to inch closer to grace, knowing full well it is unreachable? There's no going home. 

"Ben, please." 

"I don't have time for this." 

The offhand approximation of a shrug in the tip of his head is at odds with the tension he holds, manifested across shoulders, his spine. He turns and heads for the door, because he's not going to stand there and be faced with this, his penchant for destruction in the glistening of an eye. It's a bad time to laugh, regardless of its bitterness. And then—

"Right. The trademarked way of fixing things by walking out," so bitter, like they were someone else's words. They've always known to stab where the skin is softer. "Fuck you, man."

He turns, stalks towards her. Like the opposite end of a string, she stands her ground and waits.

He is still some feet away when he drags her none too gently to his mouth, and for all that anger—for all his _hurt_ —her warmth like relief, like a weight lifted. And with no preamble, she whimpers into his mouth and melts, clutching at his hair, the shell of his ear. She pulls him to her and demands that he stay. When he slips his tongue a little too greedily into her mouth, she pushes into him. It doesn’t last, of course. For all his posturing, his tragedy is being so used to getting left. He will take what he can get for as long as it is offered.

Here, it is her wanting.

And so he pulls back, despite her hands curled into his hair pulling, the distance her lips are trying to close, her half-lidded eyes. Instead, he noses at her jaw, presses an open-mouthed kiss on her neck as he unbuttons her silk, fingers grazing lace. He can feel her shiver beneath his hands, his name a breathy nothing from her mouth. _Ben_ , like a secret within a secret, in this room folded inside time. He anchors an arm around her waist, presses closer. His lips reacquaint themselves with the spots that urge something close to ferocity out of her.

"My sweet, darling girl—" he whispers right in her ear, one hand creeping up over her ribs and into the waiting swell of her breasts, "—who always thinks the worst of me." He pinches a hardening nipple between his fingers, and from the corner of his eye, he watches her lashes flutter. 

Her breath hitches as his ministrations, but he's not done. 

The question isn't when he became this person, looking to hurt. The question isn't when he began thinking of regret as validation. The question is, _oh, didn't I love you enough?_

"It's funny, isn't it, the lengths I've already gone?" 

Her brows furrow in either anger or concentrated deflection, before fisting his hair and bringing his mouth to hers. She pushes her tongue into his mouth, swirling it around his. He lets go of her breast to slide his hand up her throat, wrapping around it, tilting her head up further. A little more pressure coaxes a strangled moan out of her, but her eyes are perpetually closed. Is it a truth universally acknowledged that he will see her denial where it isn't? 

He kisses her roughly, a hand around her neck, the other kneading at her ass and pushing her against him, their bodies so close now. Elsewhere her hands roam. One second, they're in his hair, another down her back, anywhere she can reach. Tracing history, or else a sad epilogue. 

It's this thought—the finality of it against the elicit stealing of just one more touch—that has him wrenching his mouth from hers, and with all the gentleness of a man unhinged, turns and pushes her against the window. He pulls her hair down a little to expose her neck—and here, perhaps softness—to kiss and suck. He snakes a hand up, across her stomach, through the valley of her breasts, pushes two fingers into her mouth. When she starts sucking is when he speaks.

"You like this, don't you?" he pants into her ear, grinding his cock against her ass. "Me at your bidding." Without warning, he pops his fingers out of her mouth and into her skirt, pressing against lace already wet. "God, you're dripping, aren't you, my good girl?" 

She turns his head to mouth at her chin, " _Ben_."

He cups the dampness between her legs, restricted by her skirt, and there's something inherently hot about it, the lines they're crossing. Down the hallway, their campaign aids are preparing for the debate. In twenty minutes, they go alive, and they'll tear into each other, and it will be a bloodbath. But for now, his fingers slide into her cunt and curve. It wrenches a strangled groan out of her, has her pushing her ass against his erection and coaxing a moan out of him in turn. She clutches at his arm and grinds. 

"Ben, please. I want— _please_."

He presses a kiss on her temple. "I know, baby." 

She keens as he takes his hand out of her skirt to squeeze at her breast, unbuttoning his trousers and pumping his erection. He rucks up her skirt, pulling her panties to the side, just as her arm winds up to fist at his hair. For a split second, she just rests against him and sighs. For a split second, they're exactly who they've been. 

But then, because they know each other, because this was supposed to be nothing but a tryst in a dusty room no one knows about, he pushes into her waiting cunt and it feels—it feels—

—better, already, the best he's felt—

Her body grips his cock like a vice, even as he sets a brutal, demanding pace. His fingers dig into her hips and he will bruise her, he's sure of it. Leave a mark like nothing of him had lasted. This maelstrom of heat and friction they've created between them, it overwhelms his senses, clouds his mind. He want to say the words he says. Her name muttered, a threat, or a promise, as he thrusts into her. "You'll think about this and remember, how you pushed into me with your skirt around your hips—" he mutters into her neck, "—how much you wanted me—" His fingers on her clit, one hand pinching her hardened nipples. "—and you'll realize how you've ruined me." 

A swipe at her clit, her nipple between his fingers, one more thrust. And then his name from her lips as she cants into his hand. He follows right after, resting his forehead on her shoulder. 

"It's all you, Rey." 

After, when they've established a semblance of normalcy, he will set her to rights. Smooth her skirt down her thighs, button up her blouse, as she watches as if on the verge of saying something. He will be careful not to touch her any more than necessary. He will comb through her hair, tuck it behind her ears. And then, because can't help himself—because he never could, where she's concerned—he will tilt her chin up, look deeply into her eyes and then sigh, not having found anything, not an inclination. 

He fucking loves her, but that's not the point anymore. 

"Wait a few minutes before going out." 

And then he leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> References to Angela Manalang Gloria and Pablo Neruda.
> 
> This is the first time I wrote smut for Ben and Rey. Please be kind, but also honest? I'd love to know what you think. Comments are always a delight—or you can find me on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/flirtfighting/)!


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